Mystics of Bleeding Blue

have, in order to fall in love with his devastation; There are, however, countless words to depict the splendor in which an entity unravels.

I don’t know why the remnants of the bruised hearts I’ve never known, blot my hands like the soot from the flames I’ve never set. Or why, every time I try to clean the ashes off my fingers, I feel like an arsonist, the fire-starter.

But, I do know that I’ve chanted more prayers for the deranged Than for the ailing masses. I know that while the concepts that mark my existence are much diminutive, I can very well describe the way in which the floor of my room sets itself ablaze, Like it is being ruined by my own psychic flames.

It is like starting to write a story with a happy ending in mind, And with every proceeding letter, the English language provides me with words that make me hopeless and tragic. It is like how I never love the feeling of being at home more Than when everything around me is screwed up.

Please do not consider me a maniac, When I say that I never find more safety than when my rib cage tears into pieces. The notion of worsening of my own brain has spellbound me since the earliest times. We all are crazy here, Aren’t we? This reminder is enough to twirl up my consciousness often.

I set my pocket watch fifteen minutes fast, Just to see who else will run ahead of time with me. I dig holes in my skin In the hope of catching someone there. Yes, I am mad And so are you! For we are like the scattered ink from that broken inkpot which departed to let us bleed blue.